


Geralt and the Minotaur pt2

by thecomfortofoldstorries



Series: Geralt and the Minotaur [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Human Sacrifice, Human Trafficking, M/M, Pre-Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, but the ancient kind, dont worry, inspired by the myth of theseus, it gets soft too though, it's just set in the context of some nasty shit, only mentioned - Freeform, thechnically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28906338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecomfortofoldstorries/pseuds/thecomfortofoldstorries
Summary: Geralt meets Jaskier on the way to Crete.We have bonding.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geralt and the Minotaur [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2119917
Kudos: 14





	Geralt and the Minotaur pt2

**Author's Note:**

> anthropologists have found evidence that the people of Crete ate their dead. fucking wack right?? also they were the major power in the area at the time and defs considered downright ruthless (makes me think of Nilfguard)

Plans were made, if you could call them plans; Geralt was going in blind. No one who’d entered the labyrinth below the palace of Crete had ever returned, save for the architect, and even he almost died. All they could prepare for was getting him home. He had one day after they were released into the tunnels to make it out alive and to the port. 

As the day grew closer he found sleep harder to come by. Anyone he spoke to was positive, encouraging, some of the senior military officers even offered advice, but he saw the pity in their eyes. Eskel and Lambert trained him hard, telling him they’d rather him die of heat exhaustion in the arena than by the hands of the minotaur. He heard people’s whispers from around corners and his father’s advisors worry over who would inherit the crown when he didn’t come back. It seemed everyone thought he was as good as dead. 

He spent most of the night before they were to leave wandering the cliffs overlooking the sea. He’d never tried to speak to his Olympian father, sure he made sacrifices and said his thanks, but he had yet to seek answers from him. He stopped to stare out at the waves, the sound of them rushing over the rocks below coming to him as a comfort. Now wasn’t the time, he decided, better not to test his Posiden’s favor before something so important. 

He arrived back at the palace just after dawn to a great flurry and bustle of activity. Someone pulled him into a dressing chamber and helped him work out best how to hide a knife in his robes. In the end, they opted for a shorter chiton, only tied at his off hand shoulder to give him as much freedom with his weapon as possible. The blade was tucked between the layers of fabric and the belt around his waist where he could easily grab it but, hopefully, no one would see it. He’d have to be careful sitting down, but it gave him comfort knowing it was secured beneath his navel. The piece was hemmed above his knee, easier to run in, and made of common, sturdy grey fabric. The hope was he wouldn’t be recognized, though there was nothing to be done about his hair and eyes. 

Vessimir said nothing all morning, he followed his son from room to room as he asked Lambert last-minute questions and had a final, quivering voiced pep talk with Eskel. It felt as though Apollo was meandering across the sky, drawing out the agony of their wait. 

When the sun was finally directly overhead, there was a chorus of screams as mothers spotted black sails on the horizon.

Geralt had felt nothing all morning until seeing those sails. Now his palms were sweating, his heart pumping as if he’d sprinted the amphitheater stairs, and he felt if he looked his father directly in the eye he might fall into a fit of tears. 

Finally, the time had come, the ship was roughly a mile out, and he would have to join the others soon. 

Vessimir gripped his shoulder, “Geralt,” the boy, for that is certainly what he felt like, looked up at him with a trembling bottom lip, “I am proud of you. It may scare me, but you are a fair and noble leader; not a mere ruling body.”

Geralt nodded, biting his cheek to keep his tears at bay as he whispered, “Thank you.”

Vessimir pulled him into his arms, wrapping him in a bone-crushing hug, “I love you.”

Geralt tucked his head into his father’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut as tears cascaded over his cheeks. He had only just found his father, and now he’d thrown this away on some stupid impulse? 

A guard cleared his throat, a signal that time was running short.

Geralt couldn’t be the one to let go, not even if he’d wanted to. Vessimir had to gently push him away, holding him at arms distance.

“When you come back, raise white sails. I need to know you’ve survived as soon as I see your vessel.”

Geralt nodded, taking the yards upon yards of folded white canvas from an attendant, “I love you, father.”

Vessimir’s lips formed a thin line behind his beard and he nodded, “Go be a hero.”

He followed the plain-clothed guard to the docks where families were gathered saying goodbyes full of false hope. One look at the terrified prince had mothers clutching their children tight and begging the gods for mercy. Guilt weighed heaviest on his chest when fathers reassured their daughters that the slayer of Procrustes and the wild boar would protect them. He wondered if they were lying, or if they really believed he could save their children.

They were corralled onto the boat in a flurry of shouts and soldiers in unfamiliar armor and colors. Geralt tucked the sails inside a coil of rope that came up to his waist in the chaos. Before the fourteen youths were even pushed into the lowered portion of the deck, the soldiers shoved off from the dock, dodging rocks and trying to tune out the wails.

Geralt was herded next to a boy maybe one year his junior as the rowers began to heave at the oars. He stumbled into the brunet when the vessel surged forward.

“Sorry, I’ve never been to sea like this before,” he muttered, reaching out to steady himself against the mast in the center of their makeshift prison.

The boy looked up at him with a grin, blue eyes matching the sea behind him, “Well now’s a good time for firsts, yeah?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, “Nothing like certain death to inspire optimism.”

A small snicker reached over the rush of the wind as the boy shook his head, “I’m Jaskier.”

“Geralt.”

A soldier slammed his spear on the deck, “Oi! No talking!”

“Fuck off, you dirty cannibal.” Jaskier snapped back at him, turning to face the man twice his size. The man glowered at him but the boy stood his ground, crossing his arms over his chest and continuing despite his best interest, “Is the whole island full of bull-fuckers like your queen? Or is beastiality only reserved for the royals?”

Geralt gripped the neck of Jaskier’s tunic and yanked him back just in time to avoid the blunt end of a spear swinging at his head. He pulled the boy around to stand behind him, turning to grab the spear just as it was thrust at his chest. There was a moment of eye contact between Geralt and the soldier before he twisted his wrist and snapped the handle in half. The soldier let out a yell and swung with his fists at Geralt’s head. He sidestepped and gripped the soldier’s wrist, using his momentum to pull him down the step, and gripping his backplate with his other hand. He slammed the soldier into the mast as hard as he could, making the rigging rattle with the force. When the soldier tried to struggle Geralt twisted his wrist behind his back.

He leaned in close and growled in the man’s ear, “We have no choice but to go,” Geralt paused to crank the man’s arm even farther up between his shoulder blades, “but touch a hair on their heads and I will swiftly remove yours.”

“You would try.” The man gasped, clearly trying to sound more confident than he was.

Geralt rolled his eyes and grunted as he wheeled around and threw the man back up to his fellow countrymen. He landed on his shoulder at their feet, a sickening crack filling the tense silence. The strangled gasp the man let out made Geralt want to wince, but he kept his face set in stone. 

“Don’t touch them.” his voice was strong and sure despite feeling like he might faint. 

The captain stepped forward, holding a hand up to his men, “You stay put, and they’ll keep their distance.”

Geralt nodded, waiting till the Cretian turned away before looking for Jaskier, “Are you alright?”

He nodded, stepping up close to Geralt and gripping his hips, standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. The terror that had weighed him down all day was temporarily forgotten as Geralt shivered under his touch.

“Your knife came loose.” Jaskier whispered against his cheek, subtly twisting the prince’s belt, “Don’t want them spying it.” 

Geralt swallowed hard, fighting the urge to follow Jaskier when he pulled away, “Thank you.”

“Please. I should be thanking you.” Jaskier cocked his head to the side, squinting as he examined Geralt’s face, “Are you always so pale?”

Geralt released the breath he was holding, letting himself smile as he shook his head.

Everyone was settling into groups around them, some sitting and chatting quietly, their bodies tense as they leaned in close, others holding hands and staring out over the sea. Jaskier slid down the mast, patting the deck beside him as if Geralt hadn’t already decided he wouldn’t leave the boy alone until they were safely back on Athenian shores. 

Jaskier rested with his shoulder against Geralt’s, practically ordering his body to relax. 

Leaning into him, Geralt trembled, no longer able to keep his nerves contained as the adrenaline seeped out of his body, “Do they really eat people in Crete? No one will tell me.” 

“All I know are rumors- Are _you_ alright?” Jaskier asked, fixing Geral with a worried look as he rested a hand on his knee.

“Fine.” Geralt lied, feeling his whole body shake with the effort of keeping him upright and his eyes open. It didn’t help that this boy was magnetic and distracting, drawing him closer with his gentle touch and fearless nature. Geralt wondered if their dire circumstances were what made him react this way or if he would have been just as allured by the reckless boy had they met back home. 

“It’s nearing dusk, when was the last time you slept?” Jaskier examined the deep blue bags under his eyes as Geralt stubbornly avoided his gaze. Eskel had told him to be wary of everything, especially anyone who wasn’t just as terrified as him, but everything in Geralt was telling him to trust Jaskier. 

He shrugged, honestly unable to say when he actually slept last. The night before had been spent in denial and before that he wasn’t sure if any of the time he spent with his eyes closed could really have counted as sleep. 

Jaskier shifted, wrapping an arm around his waist and guiding him to lay his head on his lap, “You need to rest.”

Geralt made a feeble effort to fight him, born out of pride more than actual desire, “I need to stay alert. I can’t defend us if I’m asleep.”

“Sshhhhh,” Jaskier ran a hand through Geralt’s hair, making his scalp tingle under his touch, “You can’t defend anyone too exhausted to stand,” he whispered. Geralt gave in, making it clear he was doing so reluctantly, even if he was unable to keep his eyes from closing as he rested against Jaskier’s thigh. The blue-eyed boy hummed a soft tune, something Geralt’s mother used to sing him to sleep with, and every stroke through his hair sent a wave of calm through his body. The sensation lulled him closer to sleep despite the angry crashing of waves against the hull and violent shifting of the boat beneath them. 

“Wake me.. If…”

“I’ll wake you if you’re needed.” Jaskier assured him, resting a hand on his sternum, “Sleep, hero.”

With the promise, Geralt relinquished his already weak grasp on consciousness and fell into a deep sleep.


End file.
